The Ice Queen (31 page)

“Here? In Novgorod?”

“In a public audience before the prince and princess—especially the princess. You tell them that, Tangle-Hair, and tell them also that the purpose of their mission must be kept secret until I say the word. I want to surprise the Swedish bitch and her puppy. What a sight that will be!”

My heart sank, for it seemed utterly improbable that the jarls would consent to make so long a journey. But there was no backing out of it now.

“All right, then. I'll take a fast horse from the stable and I'm off to Aldeigjuborg. It shouldn't be hard to find a west-bound merchant ship there this time of year.”

“Hold on. What am I supposed to say when people notice you're gone?”

“Anything but the truth. Oh, and one other thing—get rid of all your females and buy new ones, and not from Stavko Ulanovich.”

I left him puzzling over that.

On a summer's evening four weeks later I sailed into Nidaros harbor aboard a merchant ship out of Gotland. I had thought Nidaros such a magnificent place when I first saw it, fresh from Iceland. It came as a shock to realize what a mean little village it was compared to Lord Novgorod the Great.

Two years ago, my crew and I had spent the winter at an inn (more precisely, a brothel) presided over by Bergthora Grimsdottir—a big, homely woman, both tough and tender-hearted. During that year, I had, against my will, fought in the Battle of Stiklestad, where King Olaf met his death and where I first laid eyes on young Harald.

Entering the inn yard now, I beheld Bergthora's ample backside as she bent over to draw water from the well. I crept up behind her, grabbed her round the waist, and kissed her neck. She uttered a scream and threw her arms in the air, and followed this with kisses and hugs till I scarcely had breath left in me.

No need to recount all the questions she peppered me with nor my answers, of which I doubt she believed the half. To the question of what brought me back, I said only that I had a little business to transact for my master. “Now, Bergthora, where's that rogue, Stig No one's-Son? Inside pinching the girls and drinking up all your profits, I'll wager. He and I quarreled and parted company I'm ashamed to say. I'd like nothing better than to make it up with him. Come on, let's surprise him.”

“What, him?” She squeezed out a tight little smile. “Oh, he never came back. Never thought he would, not Stig.” She turned her head away, not wanting me to see the tear in her eye.

“Never—? Why, then, he's the damndest fool in all the world! Oh, but he'll come rolling home to you one day yet, Bergthora, don't you worry. Now, Kalf Slender-Leg's still here, isn't he?—how I've missed him!”

A large teardrop rolled down her cheek. “Gone away too.”

“What, back to Iceland?”

“No, not there. T'was not long after you sailed when he stole away one morning early—we were all still abed—with his little bundle of belongings on his back. I know it on account of he was seen at the waterfront—no one could mistake him hobbling on his crutch, dragging his useless leg behind him. They say he took passage on a ship bound across the sea for Frankland. You know, I came to love him like a son; and one who'd always stay by me—not a rover like you and Stig. But it weren't so. On two legs or one you're all alike, you men.

“He left me a purse of silver, though—t'was all he had left in the world—with a note that deacon Poppo read to me, saying how an angel of the Lord came to him in his sleep and bade him go on pilgrimage and walk in Our Savior's steps. That was all, except begging me to pray for him every day just as he would for me. Walk to Jerusalem! That poor boy as could scarcely walk at all!”

Bergthora was Christian, though she never let that get in the way of business. But Kalf—Kalf my boyhood friend, closer to me than a blood brother—had become consumed with the Faith. He joined Olaf's army and was crippled in the battle. His piety led to a painful breach between us, though in the end we forgave each other. How pleased he would be if he knew I'd been baptized!

I stayed that night at the inn, with Bergthora hovering over me the whole time, cutting choice slices of meat off the spit for me, filling my ale horn, and offering the pick of her girls. And each of us tried to put on a cheerful face for the other, but it was hard.

I was happy to get away next morning and be about my business. I hired a horse in the town and asked directions to the farmstead of Jarl Haarek of Tjotta. Haarek was a slippery character who had once been Olaf's man but then betrayed him to Canute, King of Denmark, England and now Norway too. Soon after Olaf's death at Stiklestad, though, smelling a change in the wind, he became one of the first to trumpet the martyred king's sainthood. Skeptical at first, Haarek heard me out and, after a short rumination, sent riders to summon Kalv Arnesson, Thorir Hound, and half a dozen others, who, like himself, had been quick to
shed Olaf's blood and even quicker to regret it once they got a taste of Danish rule.

To this assembly, I recounted, in my most high-flown skaldic manner, how Harald Sigurdsson had been carried half dead from the bloody field of Stiklestad, and how, after recovering his strength, he had followed in his saintly brother's footsteps to the land of the Rus. There he was at this very moment—wealthy, powerful, and held in the highest esteem by Prince Yaroslav the Wise and his excellent wife.

“Nevertheless,” I said with feeling, “in spite of his comfortable situation and against the wishes of the prince and princess, who long to keep him with them, he thinks only of returning to his native land and uniting it under his banner in a rising against the Danes.”

I knew that my own future, just as much as Harald's, depended on my eloquence, and so I put my whole heart into it. “With God's help and yours,” I concluded, brandishing my fist in the air, “Harald Sigurdsson Haarek will one day sit on Norway's throne, a worthy successor to his sainted brother!”

But these jarls were shrewd men, not easily swayed. Instead of the cheers and table-pounding that I had hoped for, there were questions testing me on details of the battle which only someone close to Harald and Olaf could have known. My answers were chewed over in long stretches of silence. Finally they asked to see the signet ring with Harald's initial on it and they passed it around from hand to hand, studying it thoughtfully.

Really, my argument was a strong one. It was taken for granted that none but Olaf's kin could ever rule Norway, and Harald—brave, capable, a proven warrior, the very incarnation of Olaf—was plainly to be preferred to the weak and immature Magnus. Of course, that argument could cut two ways. The jarls were not so sure that they wanted a strong king who would tax their peasants and curtail their liberties. The ultimate persuader was money. Every mercenary captain is expected to line his pockets, but Harald had a positive genius for it. Even half his fortune—which was the figure I mentioned—would be enough to keep these jarls fat and drunk for the rest of their days.

On what terms would he return? they asked. I replied coolly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “Harald, wishes to be invited by a deputation of you in Novgorod. You understand that without oaths publicly taken he places himself in danger. The expenses of your
journey”—here I dropped my wallet full of gold on the table, artfully allowing the coins to spill out—“he insists on paying himself.” (Their eyes grew wide.) “The city of Novgorod, I may add, has not its equal anywhere in the world. Every sort of pleasure can be tasted there. And you would, of course, be the guests of the prince and princess, than whom there is no pleasanter couple to be found in all Christendom. The crown must be offered to Harald in their presence, he insists on this point, though he asks you to keep your mission secret until the final moment, when he himself will break the news to them gently—they are such a sweet and sentimental couple and prone to floods of tears.”

We sailed out of Trondheimfjord in three well-built ships, each carrying three of the jarls with their retinues and baggage. The most precious item of baggage was the narrow circlet of gold that had once sat on Olaf's brow. A brave Norwegian had snatched it right from under the Danes' noses and had kept it safely hidden all this time.

We had a favoring wind all the way and Midsummer's day found us crossing Lake Ladoga on the last leg of our journey. I'd hoped to sail straight past Aldeigjuborg in order to escape the notice of Ragnvald, but the jarls insisted on stopping here to rest and stretch themselves before going on. I had passed through the town on my outward journey unobserved, but it was impossible that this large entourage could fail to draw attention to itself. And sure enough, here came Jarl Ragnvald, hurrying down to the pier with expressions of delight. He greeted me like an old friend and insisted on bringing us to his hall, where he set every one flying about to produce a feast that very night.

Naturally, he said, his curiosity was piqued as to his guests' object in visiting Gardariki. A secret? How extraordinary! Well, he would inquire no more about it—diplomacy was too deep a matter for his simple nature—but would only beg to have the pleasure of our company for a few days before we completed our journey. The noble jarls would find his ale vats overflowing, his larder well-stocked, and they would insult him if they did not treat his possessions entirely as their own.

This was a side of Ragnvald I was seeing for the first time. Fawning humility, it appeared, was as much a part of his nature as overbearing
pride. Either way, I didn't trust him, and the prospect of delay made me frantic. But my Norwegians were delighted; they loved being groveled to. After three maddening days of this, I commandeered a small boat and went ahead by myself to prepare the way, after getting their promise to follow me within the next day or two.

It was midnight, although the midsummer sun still hung in the treetops, when I entered the courtyard of Harald's dvor. From the hall drifted the sound of laughter and snatches of song. I pounded on the door until a servant answered.

“Tell gospodin Harald,” I said, “that his skald hails him King of Norway!”

A moment passed, followed by the din of many voices shouting at once. Harald, his face flushed with drink and his clothes disheveled, came to the door. His bodyguards, in similar condition, crowded round us.

“You've come back, by God!” said Harald.

“Didn't you think I would?”

“Frankly, no.”

“I'm sorry to hear it. You may have a better opinion of me when I tell you that the Tronder jarls are only a day's sail away and have pledged themselves to give you Olaf's crown—Your Highness.”

“Hurrah for Odd Haraldsskald! Hurrah for Harald and Norway!” a chorus of voices rang out.

I was lifted up and carried inside, toasted and cheered, and made to recount every detail of my mission to these happy men, who would soon now be going home to their farms and families.

In the midst of this noisy excitement, though, Harald, who should have been the happiest of all, was strangely quiet and looked at me from time to time in a way that I didn't quite like.